A Deeper Grave

When the hunter becomes the hunted...

Serial-killer hunter Nick Shade built his legendary career chasing monsters—sadistic criminals with a gruesome thirst for death. When he rescued Montgomery detective Bobbie Gentry from horrific captivity and helped her reclaim her life, he didn’t intend to be a hero. Or a target. But now a copycat murderer haunts him, and reuniting with Bobbie is his best chance at neutralizing the threat.

Bobbie can’t forget the nightmares of her trauma—or the man who saved her. Working with Nick to outmaneuver the person behind a deadly vendetta feeds her hope that there’s more to her world than ghosts and destruction. Maybe joining Nick’s search for a killer is about gratitude. Maybe it’s nothing more than cold revenge. But the only way they can protect themselves is to trust each other.

Praise for the novels of Debra Webb

“A hot hand with action, suspense and last, but not least, a steamy relationship.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Debra Webb’s name says it all.”

—New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose

“Compelling main characters and chilling villains elevate Debra Webb’s Faces of Evil series to the realm of high-intensity thrillers that readers won’t be able to resist.”

—New York Times bestselling author CJ Lyons

“A well-crafted, and engrossing thriller. Debra Webb has crafted a fine, twisting thriller to be savored and enjoyed.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham on Traceless

“A steamy, provocative novel with deep, deadly secrets guaranteed to be worthy of your time.”

—Fresh Fiction on Traceless

“Debra Webb’s best work yet. The gritty, edge-of-your-seat, white-knuckled thriller is peopled with tough, credible characters and a brilliant plot that will keep you guessing until the very end.”

—New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard on Obsession

“Interspersed with fine-tuned suspense...the cliffhanger conclusion will leave readers eagerly anticipating future installments.”

—Publishers Weekly on Obsession

“Webb reaches into our deepest nightmares and pulls out a horrifying scenario. She delivers the ultimate villain.”

—RT Book Reviews on Dying to Play

Also by Debra Webb

MIRA Books

Shades of Death

The Blackest Crimson

No Darker Place

A Deeper Grave

Harlequin Intrigue

Faces of Evil

Dark Whispers

Still Waters

Look for Debra Webb’s next novel

THE COLDEST FEAR

available soon from MIRA Books.

For additional books by Debra Webb, visit her website at www.debrawebb.com.

A Deeper Grave

Debra Webb

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to all the amazing men and women who risk their lives every day to protect and serve the communities of this great nation as officers of the law. Though many of my fiction novels include members of law enforcement who are not good guys, I know that in real life these bad folks are the exception and not the rule. Thank you for all you do to keep us safe.

Only on the edge of the grave can man conclude anything.

—Henry Adams

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Extract

Copyright

One

Westminster Drive

Wednesday, October 19, 10:00 p.m.

Fern Parker turned up the volume until the music vibrated in her earbuds. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend her parents weren’t right down the hall screaming at each other. Ever since they moved into this shitty house in this shitty neighborhood all those two ever did was fight. It didn’t matter that she and her brother had lost nearly all their friends or that they couldn’t even go to the mall or any damned where else without being pointed at and whispered about. The worst part was moving to a new school. Fern hated the place, she hated the other kids and she hated the teachers. All her parents cared about was proving who was the guiltiest.

She hated them both. Hated her life.

Fern pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut a little tighter. God, she wished she had some weed. Maybe she’d have some later. He had bought it for her before. Last time it was beer. A smile softened her lips. He was so damned hot. Maybe tonight they’d have sex. He’d pretended not to want it as much as she did, but she knew. He was only trying to be a gentleman. Older guys were like that. She didn’t care that he was older. He was watching out for Fern and her family like a guardian angel. No one else cared.

He deserved something for all his trouble. Besides, Fern was tired of being a virgin. Tonight she was going to be bad. Just let her parents try getting in her shit for being bad. “I hate you both,” she muttered.

Something touched her arm and she jumped. Sage. Her crybaby little brother.

“What do you want?” she demanded, removing an earbud. He scared the crap out of her sneaking around like that. She should have locked her door.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” He stared up at her with those puppy dog eyes all shiny with tears. You’d think he was five instead of ten.

Hard as she tried not to care, she regretted yelling at him and for one second she almost said yes. She loved the little brat even if he made her so mad sometimes. He always got scared when their parents argued. Then she remembered the guy she’d promised to meet after her parents crashed. No contest.

“Get out of here!” She snagged her brother by the arm and escorted him into the hall. “Leave me alone,” she warned.

“Pleeease,” he whined.

“Go away!” Fern slammed the door in his face.

She felt bad again for about a second. He was her little brother and she loved him. She’d gotten in seriously deep shit sticking up for him. Her school record was ruined. She rolled her eyes. Who cared? It wasn’t like she was going to Harvard or Princeton now the way her father had always promised. She’d be lucky to get into a state school with financial assistance.

Her whole fucking life was falling apart and it was their fault. She glared at the wall that separated her bedroom from her parents’. The whole city knew the awful things they had done. All the jerks who’d ever pretended to be her friends had turned their backs when the government seized their home...froze their assets. A sixteen-year-old girl shouldn’t even have to know about those things much less be living them.

It wasn’t fair. Her parents had ruined her life. She and her brother would never recover from their bullshit.

Frustrated, Fern stormed from her room and down to the kitchen. Maybe she’d see if her father still kept a stash of beer in the garage fridge. She didn’t bother turning on a light. The layout of the house wasn’t that complicated. It was maybe a fifth the size of the home she’d grown up in. This place sucked in every way.

A quick twist of the dead bolt and she slipped into the garage. At the fridge, she opened the door, light spilled out around her and she spotted the Budweiser. She smiled and reached for one. Standing in the vee the open fridge door made, she twisted off the top and took a long, deep swallow. Something stung her neck. She jerked. Swatted at whatever it was. The half-empty bottle of beer hit the concrete, shattering and splashing foamy liquid over her legs.

“Shit.”

Before she could step away from the mess, an arm locked around her waist and a hand closed over her mouth. She told herself to struggle but her muscles wouldn’t work. The light from the fridge faded to darkness.

“Good night, princess.”

Two

Montgomery, Alabama

Thursday, October 20, 7:35 a.m.

Detective Bobbie Gentry adjusted the temperature on the dash. Last week it had hit better than seventy degrees every single day. As if the weather gods suddenly woke up and realized it was fall, last night’s low abruptly dipped nearly to freezing. Football weather, her father had called it. Her husband, on the other hand, would have picked up their little boy and swung him around, announcing that the cooling temps and changing colors of the leaves meant it was time for the fair to come to town.

Except those happy moments wouldn’t happen this year. James was dead. Their son, Jamie, was dead. And her folks had passed away years ago.

Bobbie was alone.

The good news was she had come to terms with the reality of her life...at least to some degree. Dying wasn’t her first thought when she woke up or whenever she thought of her little boy. Her heart no longer threatened to stop beating when she recalled her husband’s voice, or his touch or that sexy smile. At some point in the past few weeks she had stopped counting the days since her life, for all intents and purposes, had ended.

She was alone, but she was learning to live with it.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She slowed for a traffic light and glanced at the detective in the passenger seat of her Challenger. “No one said you did, Bauer. Besides you’d do the same for me.”

Asher Bauer stared out the window, refusing to meet her gaze. “I dunno where you get the idea that I’m a nice guy.”

Bobbie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. They’d had versions of this discussion numerous times before. Typically Bauer was a charming, keep-everybody-laughing kind of guy—unless he was in a mood. When he was in a mood, he considered himself the scum of the earth and wanted nothing to do with anyone. Like now.

“Maybe I think you’re a nice guy because you brought me flowers every week when I was in the hospital and in rehab.” She sent him a knowing look. “That was a lot of flowers.”

“Holt made me bring ’em.”

“Yeah right. Holt had nothing to do with those flowers and we both know it.”

Sergeant Lynette Holt wasn’t the type to suggest flowers. She barely remembered to order an arrangement for her wife when their baby was born. Bobbie wished she could turn off whatever switch had been tripped over the weekend. Last Friday Bauer had been psyched, looking forward to a trip to T-Town to watch the Crimson Tide play Texas A&M. It certainly hadn’t been the game. The Tide had crushed the Aggies. Maybe he and his date had a fight. Of course Bauer would deny he’d been on a date. Whether he called it a date or not he’d taken a female companion to the game in Tuscaloosa. They’d no doubt partied and fooled around. And, apparently, parted on less than amicable terms. He’d been in a mood since.

“I get my Mustang back this afternoon,” Bauer said, totally ignoring the flower comment. “You and Holt don’t need to worry about picking me up after today.”

“That’s great. You’ll feel like a free man with your wheels back.”

Bauer grunted in response. Three weeks ago he’d left for work and barely made it a mile when another driver T-boned him. Beyond hefty damages to his beloved car, he’d sustained nothing more than a mild concussion. The fact that he hadn’t had a drink since around ten the night before ensured he was stone-cold sober at the time of the accident—another lucky break. Bauer had spent the required seventy-two hours on medical leave before returning to work and for whatever reason he’d chosen not to get a rental to use while his car was in the shop. Holt had told him to take one of the Crown Vics but he’d played off the suggestion.

Bobbie wondered if he’d been afraid to get behind the wheel again so soon after the accident. Sometimes even people who took the most daring risks could get scared. She had asked him and he’d promptly disregarded the question in that same aloof manner he used to make people think he was arrogant. But he wasn’t. Bauer never talked down to anyone and he kept his troubles to himself. Case in point, even after two years Bobbie still didn’t know why his fiancée had committed suicide. Not that she could fault him for keeping certain things close.

We all have our secrets. She had plenty of her own.

“You make your meeting last night?” She braced for a sarcastic response. Asking an alcoholic if he’d gone to his AA meeting was tricky.

“Has a cat got an ass?” He raked his fingers through his hair and then stretched his neck from side to side. “Holt said if I missed a meeting I was going on leave.”

No cop wanted to be forced off the job, but Bobbie agreed with Holt’s edict. Bauer’s drinking had become more and more of a problem over the past year. He’d hit the wall a couple of months ago and started sneaking a drink at work when the pressure was on. Holt had ordered him to get his butt to Alcoholics Anonymous. He hadn’t argued. Apparently the accident had driven home the message that he needed to get his act together on and off the job. Bobbie figured he had realized that he might have avoided being hit if he’d been more alert rather than hungover. He hadn’t said as much, but a few of his comments hinted at the idea.

While Holt had taken some time off with her new baby, Bauer had been without a partner so he and Bobbie had worked together for a few weeks. Howard Newton—Newt—had been Bobbie’s partner since the day she made detective. Seven years. He’d been like a father to her. His death two months ago had left her reeling. She missed him something fierce. Always would. But life moved on whether you were ready for change or not. September fifteenth a new detective had transferred in from Birmingham and Lieutenant Owens, the Major Crimes Bureau commander, promptly introduced him as Bobbie’s new partner. Holt and Bauer had been partners for nearly a decade. It was only right that the new guy was assigned with Bobbie.

Like every other aspect of her life this year, finding balance with a new partner hadn’t been easy. She’d lost so damned much. Until recently she’d spent most of her time wishing for just two things: vengeance and death. She hadn’t expected to accomplish one without the other, and yet here she was.

No looking back.

“You got food in the house?” she asked, her voice sounding loud after the long span of silence. “We could go shopping after work.”

Bauer made a disgusted sound. “Like I said, I don’t need a babysitter.”

As much as she understood his frustration, she couldn’t deny being grateful that someone else was the object of the team’s scrutiny and concern these days. She’d done her time and endured more than her share of sympathetic looks and queries as to whether she was okay. Okay was something she might never again be, but she was moving forward. One slow step at a time.

She said, “I’ll take that as a yes.” She hadn’t noticed any weight loss. Obviously the man was eating. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he wasn’t sleeping as well as he should. Still, every sandy-brown hair was in place and he was dressed as if he was headed to a magazine cover shoot rather than the morning briefing.

Bauer exhaled a big breath. “I’m good, that’s all anyone needs to know.” He paused for a couple of beats. “I appreciate the offer, but I can do my own shopping.”

Bobbie braked for another traffic light. This time she turned to him. “I get it and I’ll gladly stop nosing into your business on one condition.”

He gave her an eye roll. “And what might that condition be?”

“If you need someone, you’ll call me. Deal?”

He made an impatient face, but he nodded his agreement. “Deal. Now get off my back.”

“You got it.” The light changed to green and she nudged the accelerator. Since she hadn’t exactly set the best example of reaching out to friends for help, she appreciated that Bauer didn’t mention as much.

He unclipped his cell from his belt, checked the screen and answered, “Morning, Sarge. What’s up?”

Unless Holt had decided to check up on him, there was a call. Bauer grunted in response to whatever the sergeant was saying. Bobbie concentrated on driving, tension working its way into her muscles. The city of Montgomery had been pretty quiet the past two months. The serial killer known as the Storyteller had wreaked havoc for a few days back in August but he was in hell now where he belonged.

Bauer ended the call and tucked his phone away. “We got two bodies over on the corner of Westminster and Woodmere. Devine is already on the scene. You can drop me off at CID and head that way.”

“Any details on what happened?”

“She didn’t tell me a whole lot. She was bringing me up to speed on a case in her neighborhood that blew up again last night.”

“The domestic abuse case?” Bobbie had a bad feeling about that one. The couple lived only two doors down from Holt. Every time there was a flare-up between them it was worse than the last. Holt had, unfortunately, let the escalating situation get personal for her. Like you have any room to talk, Bobbie.

Some things were personal.

Bauer nodded. “That’s the one.” He moved his head from side to side. “I don’t get why women stay in that shit.”

Bobbie didn’t, either. Not really. Although she had to admit that her own experience with being abducted, raped and tortured had changed her in ways she hadn’t expected, so she tried not to judge anyone else. Talk was cheap until it happened to you.

“How about you drop me off at the scene?” she suggested. “When I’m done there, I’ll hitch a ride with Devine.”

Bauer didn’t answer as she slowed for a U-turn.

“Any witnesses? Who found the bodies?” she asked, not wanting to give him time to come up with an excuse for why he couldn’t drive her car to the Criminal Investigation Division offices.

He shrugged. “Don’t know about any witnesses. Holt said the housekeeper found the bodies.” Bauer reached for the coffee he’d abandoned in the cup holder and knocked back a slug. “She did say it’s some creepy shit though.”

“I guess I’ll find out.”

Creepy was relative. After what she’d gone through with the Storyteller, very little surprised Bobbie. Still, adrenaline pumped hot and fast through her veins. There was a lot missing in her life. No matter that she’d stopped the monster responsible for that loss, the emptiness remained. Being a cop was all she had left. She worked hard to stay on her toes and to maintain focus. Being a cop was her life.

The case was all that mattered.

Westminster Drive

8:30 a.m.

Detective Steven Devine waited on the sidewalk outside the tri-level brick home now surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. The lawn was neatly kept with lush green shrubbery and large trees. The house was situated in a typical middle-class suburb in an older, quiet neighborhood. Any vehicles the owners drove were either gone or hidden away in the garage.

Bobbie waved to Devine, then greeted the officer maintaining the perimeter as she ducked under the tape. The presence of two Montgomery Police Department cruisers as well as that of the coroner’s van had drawn neighbors outside. So far Bobbie didn’t see any sign of reporters, which suited her just fine. She’d had her fill of the media over the past ten months. Be that as it may, as soon as word about the homicides hit the grapevine the newshounds would appear. Generally they weren’t far behind the coroner’s van.

“Morning, Bobbie,” Devine said, his good old Southern boy smile in place.

He was a couple of years younger than Bobbie’s thirty-two. Tall, lean and reasonably attractive with the kind of calming blue eyes that stirred trust, particularly in female witnesses. He kept his dark hair cut regulation short and his tailored designer suits professionally pressed. More important than all the outer trappings, his history as a homicide detective in Birmingham was impeccable. So far Bobbie couldn’t complain.

“Morning. What do we have inside?” Bobbie headed for the front door.

Devine’s long legs easily kept up with her hurried stride. “Husband and wife are deceased. The bodies appear to have been staged. Sixteen-year-old daughter and ten-year-old son weren’t home. The housekeeper says they frequently stay with friends.”

“We need to confirm the location of the children ASAP.” Worry tied a knot in her gut. If the kids were home at the time of the murders there could be more bodies showing up soon.

“Got someone working on that,” Devine said.

Bobbie frowned. “Is this a murder-suicide?”

“No, ma’am.” Devine paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “If you watch the news or read the papers you’re familiar with the vics, Nigel and Heather Parker.”

Bobbie doubted there was anyone in the state who hadn’t heard about the two. The identity of the victims added a whole new dimension to the investigation. Nigel Parker had apparently spent the past several years attempting to emulate the notorious Bernie Madoff. The wife, Heather, had started her own Ashley Madison–style service to accommodate her husband’s high-powered clients as well as the who’s who in the state of Alabama. The feds believed Heather had been using pillow talk to help her husband swindle his clients. Both empires had recently begun to crumble. Nigel’s diverting and skimming had been uncovered and Heather’s “little black book” had somehow landed in the hands of a national tell-all rag of a newspaper. Even the governor’s name had appeared within those torrid pages.